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whatwekeep2009-11-03 11:57 am
khemlab.livejournal.com) wrote in whatwekeep2009-11-03 11:57 am
Fic: Controlled Violence, Ch. 3/30
Characters: (for this chapter) Liev Schreiber, Nick Oliveri, Michael C. Hall, Carmine Giovinazzo, Charlie Hunnam, (mention of) Christian Bale
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slavery, Violence
Word Count: 615
Previous Parts: Ch. 1: Liev's Provenance, Ch. 2: Liev v. Madsen
Author's Note: Character photos for Lord Bale's household can be found here.
Lord Bale's Household (Gymnasium), Present Day
Thunk. Low. Thunk. Medium. Thunk. High.
"Admit it, old man, you're getting slow."
Thunk. Low. Thunk. Medium. Thunk. High.
"Still fast enough to kick your ass, Nick. Stop jawing and put some muscle into it." The pads needed replacing; every kick Nick landed was resonating in Liev's hands. Liev added it to his mental to-do list. "Harder!" he yelled, and Nick responded with a vengeance.
"Left!" Solid left jab. "Hit it!" Liev held the pads at shoulder level and watched Nick unload, sweat running now in rivulets down Nick's bald head. "Two minutes! Don't you stop! Do it! Do it!" The second hand on the gym clock ticked around its circuit agonizingly slowly, and Liev dropped a foot behind him to get a better stance, leaning into Nick's punches. "Keep going, Nick, almost there, buddy..."
He called time, and gently smacked Nick upside the head with one of the pads. "Good job. We'll make a fighter of you yet."
Hands on his knees, gasping for breath, Nick managed to huff out a quick, "Funny."
"You're running this afternoon. Take Charlie out." Liev glanced around the gym, surveying the activity of the other fighters. Nick was the only other fighter Lord Bale actually owned; the rest were here because their Masters didn't have a trainer in-house. "He needs it."
Nick had recovered enough to stand straight up, hands on his hips, chest still heaving. "Whatever you say, boss."
"Heh." Liev repressed a grin. "Don't let Michael hear you calling me that." Nick's eyes widened in warning.
"Hear him calling you what?" Liev mentally rolled his eyes before turning to face Michael, who was standing on the floor next to the ring, every inch the proper Agent. Even his shoes sparkled. It was hard to believe he'd ever been a fighter.
Liev bared his teeth in a predatory grin. "Boss. Everyone knows you like to think you're the boss around here, Michael."
Michael sighed his favorite, long-suffering sigh and studied his fingernails nonchalantly. "I don't have time to banter with you today, Liev. I just came in to let you know your cook's been sold."
"Fine." Liev tried not to let his irritation show; this was the third cook in as many weeks. He was sure Michael convinced Lord Bale to sell them out from under him just to make life difficult. "When do you think we'll get a new one in?"
"Good cooks are so hard to find these days, Liev." Michael radiated innocent concern. "I wouldn't want anything but the best for you fighters. I'll be on it as soon as possible; surely I'll be able to find one by next week. Certainly no later than next month."
"Great, Carmine needs to learn to cook anyway." Liev ignored the loud groan from over by the speed bag. "What time are we going shopping tomorrow?"
"Three." Michael's eyes flashed, and Liev felt a small bit of satisfaction in his gut. He knew Michael hated the fact that Liev had talked Lord Bale into buying a new fighter. An owned fighter was a cost center until he won enough fights to make back his purchase price; Michael far preferred the pure profit Liev brought in by training fighters owned by others. Dear, tightly-wound Michael couldn't fathom the pride of ownership when it conflicted with cost. "Wear something...respectable."
"Will do!" Liev called after Michael's retreating back.
"Shopping?"
"Don't worry, you're not being replaced." Liev slapped Nick on the shoulder and winked. "Yet." He turned away before Nick could formulate a response. "Charlie! Get your fat ass over here, Nick's taking you for a run. Your Master'll have both our hides if you haven't dropped five pounds by Friday."
Ch. 4: The Charity Ward
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slavery, Violence
Word Count: 615
Previous Parts: Ch. 1: Liev's Provenance, Ch. 2: Liev v. Madsen
Author's Note: Character photos for Lord Bale's household can be found here.
Thunk. Low. Thunk. Medium. Thunk. High.
"Admit it, old man, you're getting slow."
Thunk. Low. Thunk. Medium. Thunk. High.
"Still fast enough to kick your ass, Nick. Stop jawing and put some muscle into it." The pads needed replacing; every kick Nick landed was resonating in Liev's hands. Liev added it to his mental to-do list. "Harder!" he yelled, and Nick responded with a vengeance.
"Left!" Solid left jab. "Hit it!" Liev held the pads at shoulder level and watched Nick unload, sweat running now in rivulets down Nick's bald head. "Two minutes! Don't you stop! Do it! Do it!" The second hand on the gym clock ticked around its circuit agonizingly slowly, and Liev dropped a foot behind him to get a better stance, leaning into Nick's punches. "Keep going, Nick, almost there, buddy..."
He called time, and gently smacked Nick upside the head with one of the pads. "Good job. We'll make a fighter of you yet."
Hands on his knees, gasping for breath, Nick managed to huff out a quick, "Funny."
"You're running this afternoon. Take Charlie out." Liev glanced around the gym, surveying the activity of the other fighters. Nick was the only other fighter Lord Bale actually owned; the rest were here because their Masters didn't have a trainer in-house. "He needs it."
Nick had recovered enough to stand straight up, hands on his hips, chest still heaving. "Whatever you say, boss."
"Heh." Liev repressed a grin. "Don't let Michael hear you calling me that." Nick's eyes widened in warning.
"Hear him calling you what?" Liev mentally rolled his eyes before turning to face Michael, who was standing on the floor next to the ring, every inch the proper Agent. Even his shoes sparkled. It was hard to believe he'd ever been a fighter.
Liev bared his teeth in a predatory grin. "Boss. Everyone knows you like to think you're the boss around here, Michael."
Michael sighed his favorite, long-suffering sigh and studied his fingernails nonchalantly. "I don't have time to banter with you today, Liev. I just came in to let you know your cook's been sold."
"Fine." Liev tried not to let his irritation show; this was the third cook in as many weeks. He was sure Michael convinced Lord Bale to sell them out from under him just to make life difficult. "When do you think we'll get a new one in?"
"Good cooks are so hard to find these days, Liev." Michael radiated innocent concern. "I wouldn't want anything but the best for you fighters. I'll be on it as soon as possible; surely I'll be able to find one by next week. Certainly no later than next month."
"Great, Carmine needs to learn to cook anyway." Liev ignored the loud groan from over by the speed bag. "What time are we going shopping tomorrow?"
"Three." Michael's eyes flashed, and Liev felt a small bit of satisfaction in his gut. He knew Michael hated the fact that Liev had talked Lord Bale into buying a new fighter. An owned fighter was a cost center until he won enough fights to make back his purchase price; Michael far preferred the pure profit Liev brought in by training fighters owned by others. Dear, tightly-wound Michael couldn't fathom the pride of ownership when it conflicted with cost. "Wear something...respectable."
"Will do!" Liev called after Michael's retreating back.
"Shopping?"
"Don't worry, you're not being replaced." Liev slapped Nick on the shoulder and winked. "Yet." He turned away before Nick could formulate a response. "Charlie! Get your fat ass over here, Nick's taking you for a run. Your Master'll have both our hides if you haven't dropped five pounds by Friday."
no subject
Dare I hope that Nick = Nick Oliveri?
no subject